A Dance With the Devil
by Raven007
Summary: All the mayhem and fun you’d expect from Deadpool, and all the blood, violence and naughty parts they can’t put in the comic. (Rewritten and put into chapter format for ease of reading.) RR if you feel so inclined.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Deadpool, Bullseye, Blind Al and all related characters are (c) Marvel comics and used without permission. Raven/Vixen/Katrina Kinkade, Samantha Rothman-Kinkade, Eugene, Vinny Veto, The Profits, Shady Oaks home for the Criminally Insane, and all related characters and information are (c) Cid Van Zwol. If you plan on using my characters or creations, let me know about it.

****

Dance with the devil

The psychologist watched his patient through the two-way mirror. Running a hand through his thinning, brown hair, Dr. Curtis Brasster sighed. It was his Saturday off – the first in months, and the last place he'd wanted to spend it was at the hospital. Why his patient had picked today to have an episode, Curtis didn't know, but there was a part of him that thought she'd done it on purpose. She enjoyed pushing his buttons and making him angry. While other patients at Shady Oaks seemed to take joy from the same thing, with Katrina, it was different.

Dr. Brasster was normally able to overlook the actions of his other patients – analyze them and do what was required of him as a psychologist then move on or, at least he's end up laughing about things over dinner with his wife. Unlike his other patients, Katrina's attacks on him followed no pattern, and offered no incite to her as a person. She didn't just say or do things to lash out or repress, or because she didn't know her emotions and actions. No, the things that Katrina said and did were just crass and mean for the sake of being so, and, Curtis had the sneaking suspicion a lot of it came from boredom as well.

However, that wasn't the only thing not sitting well with Curtis Brasster. Above everything else, including Katrina's crude actions, was the fact that she was easily doing more psychoanalysis of him, then he did of her. It would all start with him asking one question or another and Katrina dodging the question with ease, then sending it back at him, with a new spin. So, where Curtis came up empty, she discovered new and useful things to hurt him with and throw him off his guard.

Before taking her on, the board of directors at Shady Oaks had warned him Katrina was a former criminologist, and a damn good one. Upon hearing that, it had taken all of Curtis's restraint not to smile right into their faces. This would be it. The perfect task for a young doctor, only a few years out of University. If he could help her, get inside Katrina's head and right the wrongs, his career would be sealed. Though truth be told, that wasn't the only thing he wanted inside of, and maybe that was a small part of the problem.

There was no getting around that Katrina Kinkade was gorgeous. Even dressed in hospital scrubs, with no make-up or brushed hair, sometimes just looking at her was enough to get him hard. His lust was only amplified by the fact Curtis's wife had barely touched him the last year and when she did it was only because he'd begged.

Just thinking about Katrina and her soft, seductive voice caused a stirring in Curtis's nether regions and Dr. Brasster was forced to think un-sexy thoughts about his grandmother until he calmed down. After a moment, he focused his eyes back to his patient, laying strapped to her bed, dressed in nothing but a thin hospital gown, her blonde hair matted around her. She was smiling – at him.

Curtis didn't want to think about how she knew he'd been standing there. And he sure as hell didn't want to assume she'd known what he was thinking. That unnerved more then he could admit. Instead the doctor straightened his tie and picked up the clip-board that held an outline of Katrina's many conditions and what had happed that had called him in from his cabin by the lake, back to the city.

Taking one long, deep breath he pulled a pen from his pocket, so as he might take notes on their conversation, then left the mirror, and entered her room.

She wasn't looking at him anymore. Katrina just studied the roof in a most arrogant manor, that caused Dr. Brasster to again wonder if she did these things on purpose. "Now, Miss. Kinkade," Curtis began, his voice holding an upper-class, British accent that he only partially faked - "why don't you tell me about your little outburst this morning?"

Despite everything, Curtis was looking forward to hearing the woman's answer, and had a feeling that the contents of his patient's mind could fill several theses.

Katrina slowly let her gaze travel from the roof, to Curtis. She grinned happily up at the doctor and strained slightly against the leather confines that held her to her bed. "Well," she stated in a calm tone, "I simply told Nurse Wagner that he was an asscanon, douchebag; and that if he came any closer to me with the needle I would rip his balls off and curb-stomp his ugly, fucking face. With the stuff that he's into I thought he might go for it. Messed up man, that one, he should really seek therapy."

"I see…" With a heavy sigh, Dr. Brasster placed his pen back into his breast pocket and his clip-board down the shelf near the door. "That was not the outburst I was referring to, Miss. Kinkade."

"Oh?" The blonde relaxed her head back on the bed and looked genuinely surprised.

"I was referring to the incident with you and Bradley."

Katrina Kinkade looked thoughtful for a moment, as though seriously pondering things. In seconds her face brightened. "Oh, right. That. I had no _real_ intention of eating his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

"We take threats of cannibalism very seriously around here. As well as attempted violence."

"I suppose it didn't help that I ran at him with a spoon, then?"

Curtis shook his head, and felt the beginnings of a headache. "Why do you continue these outbursts?" he asked. "They are getting you nowhere."

Pursing her full lips, the smile left Katrina's face. "Because I need a good – hard -fuck, Curtis. Wanna give it to me? We can play doctor."

Dr. Brasster took a deep, controlled breath. Though the part of him that was raw, untapped male wanted nothing more to be balls-deep in his attractive young patient, the thought of losing his reputation and practice kept him from acting on those desires. "I really don't think…"

Katrina's voice took on a cynical tone that snapped like a whip. "Is that what you say to Emily when she's sucking you off? Do you say 'Honey, I really don't think that would be a good idea?' No. You make little homegrown Bukcake videos with the good Mrs. Brasster, don't you?"

Nearly choking on his own tongue, the dark-haired therapist narrowed his eyes. "Watch what you say about my wife." Though he was used to Katrina's language it never ceased to amaze him, how filthy a mind and mouth she had, and he wasn't even going to inquire as to what _Bukcake _was. Silent, Curtis looked at Katrina and disturbingly realized that was one of the things about her that really turned him on. It was her brash attitude, even more than the blonde's apparent 'porno star' looks.

Katrina sighed, rolled her head to the side and groaned, "I think you need to get me another doctor, Curt. You bore the hell out of me."

Taking a seat near her bed, Curtis smiled, happy to no longer be discussing sex with Katrina. "My job is not to entertain you. It is to cure you."

"I need curing?"

"Do you think you do?"

Katrina didn't answer, only wriggled around uncomfortably against the straps. "And to think I used to actually like light bondage."

Doctor Brasster rapped lightly on the observation window behind him and within seconds an orderly walked through the door. "Please remove the straps from Miss. Kinkade, and hand me my clipboard." Curtis stated, his tone calm and professional. He was sure that four hours, restrained to the bed, and a small dose of sedative was enough to calm Katrina.

Nodding the orderly passed the clipboard to the doctor, walked around the bed and undid the straps that were holding down Katrina's naked legs. The ones that covered her waist and chest followed, then finally her hands were freed.

"Anything else, Doctor?" asked the orderly as he looked, pensively from Doctor Brasster to the smiling and now unrestrained mental patient.

With a shake of his head Curtis dismissed the orderly. Once the large man had gone, he looked to Katrina who eagerly sat up and stretched. Quickly the doctor's gaze returned to the notes in front of him. Curtis didn't want to stare, and honestly didn't trust his body if he did. He could see the outlines of her nipples through the material of the gown. He sat, silent for a moment, all the letters on the page seeming to blur in front of him. Taking a chance, Curtis again looked to his patient. He was a trained psychologist, after all. He would be professional, deal with Katrina, then go masturbate in the bathroom stall. Simple as that.

"Better?" Dr. Brasster questioned as he caught himself staring at the hard, perfect flesh of Katrina's legs. The flimsy gown barely covered her body, and as Curtis continued to take in his patients tight curves, and exposed flesh, he found it hard to control the pressure building in his crotch. Clearing his throat, he, quickly crossed his legs, and adjusted his position so that he might be a little more comfortable.

"Oh, yes, much better." Katrina stated, cocking an eyebrow as she looked at Curtis. "Now let's chat about my outburst, shall we?" The blonde mocked Curtis's British accent flawlessly. "It'll be just like in _Silence of the Lambs_. Quid pro quo. You take off the straps, I'll tell you anything you want to know, Clarice."

With a chuckle, The doctor shook his head, pulling out his pen to take notes. "Very well. I want to know why you always hide behind a sarcastic exterior, to begin with."

"Because I can. Because there is no point in acting otherwise. Because in the end that is what people expect of me." Getting up off the bed, Katrina wandered to the other side of the room and looked out the barred window. "Because out there, all they see is what they choose to see, not what really is. People like to think they are flawless, holier-then-thou. They believe that they don't have the very qualities in themselves that they hate in others. But, the truth of the matter is, everyone's a criminal and everyone is a whore."

Jotting like mad, the psychiatrist nodded, although more to himself than to his patient. "Go on."

"No, No. It's your turn…. Remember, agent Starling?"

"Very well." With a sigh, Curtis looked up from his notes and cocked his head to the side. He was aware giving his patient free reign to ask him questions was treading into dangerous territory. He was not only breaking one of psychiatry's golden rules, but was also in a position to allow her more power over him then she already held. However in the end, the chance to find out more about what went on in her mind won out and against his better judgment, he continued the line of conversation. "What do you want to know?"

Katrina leaned on the windowsill and folded her arms across her chest. "Tell me, honestly, do I scare you?"

Back when he was in university, Curtis swore he wouldn't fear his patients yet, there was something off-putting about this one in particular that made him want to say, yes. It wasn't that she had been a killer; the Shady Oaks Home for the Criminally Insane was full of murders, psychotics, and worse. It wasn't the fact that all he had to do was look at Katrina to develop a hard-on, or that she could read him like a book, it was something else, something that lay in the eyes of the young blonde. Whenever Curtis happened to catch a glimpse of this 'something' it made him wish that he could run home to his wife and she could tell him it all would be all right. It was an emptiness like he'd never seen; a barren wasteland, bleeding behind her eyes like an open wound.

Curtis Brasster dealt with serial killers, cannibals, rapists, and the criminally insane on a daily basis. He had seen things - heard things - that would have caused the average person to either sob or vomit; and for the last four years these things had only seemed to get worse, as did those who fostered them. However, in all that time he had never felt a twinge of fear quite like he felt when he was with Katrina.

He decided to lie, at least attempting it seemed easier the truth. "No," the dark haired doctor stated calmly, "I'm not afraid of you."

Walking towards him, Katrina smiled genuinely. "Sure, sure. Let's play a new game now, Curt."

"I thought this one was going rather well," Dr. Brasster declared. That was the truth; he'd gotten more information out of Katrina in the last four minutes than he had in the past five months. "My turn to ask…."

Within a few seconds, Katrina had crossed the room and was squatting in front of Curtis, looking up at him with her haunting green eyes. "You want me, don't you?"

"I don't know what…"

Slowly, the blonde placed her hand over the crotch of Curtis's dress pants, and sighed. "I thought so." There was a disappointment in her voice, although it was gone as quickly as it had come.

A light moan escaped the lips of Curtis Brasster as Katrina removed her hand from his crotch. Nudging his legs apart, she placed her hand and his inner thigh.

The doctor's mind tried to scream out a warning, to tell him that something was wrong - to call the orderly back into the room. But the euphoria of the blonde's hands on his body stopped anything but an erotic bliss.

"The new game is a betting game." Katrina stated, her voice whisper quiet. "Are you a gambler, Clarice?"

Smiling slowly, the psychiatrist ran his finger along Katrina's arm. "oh, yes."

"What do you bet," Katrina leaned forward a little and rested her elbows on the doctor's knees, "that I could kill you sooner than you could scream?"

Before Curtis could react, Katrina leapt up from her crouched position and in one quick motion, smashed the palm of her hand into Doctor Brasster's forehead, cracking it back into the thick, plated window behind him.

Blood rushed out from the back of the unconscious doctor's head splattering out across the mirror and nearby wall. Katrina then placed her hands on the sides of Curtis's twitching head and snapped his neck like it was nothing more than a stick.

"I win."


	2. Chapter 2

Deadpool narrowed his eyes at the Supreme Court justice who lay, sprawled on the sea-green rug. It looked as though a group of thugs had taken out their frustrations on him with a baseball bat. In truth, there had only been one 'thug' and he'd used a mix of fists and a katana.

Sighing at the now whimpering judge, Deadpool placed the sword back into its sheath and pulled out an M16 from its strap across chest. The mercenary took a few steps back. "This is gonna hurt - a lot. A whole hell-of-a lot."

The judge screamed as the gun went off, filling his pudgy body with a painful onslaught of bullets. Blood poured from the wounds until there was no more to spill and his body was little more then a pile of lead-filled meat in a shredded, black robe. The judge's screams had long since died to nothing, as did his twitching.

Nodding curtly at a job well done, Deadpool placed his gun back in its strap and grabbed a cigar off the messy desk in the rear of the huge 15th floor office. Lighting the cigar, Deadpool inhaled deeply and walked over to look down at the city of Chicago through a large picture window. He would have to check out some of the sights while he was here, and maybe look in to finding a call girl or two.

It was then that the door to the office burst open, and four security guards stormed through it, handguns drawn. In unison they all looked at Deadpool, then at the dead judge and back to Deadpool again.

"You know any good places to eat in this burg?" Deadpool asked casually.

The eldest of the guards pulled back on the trigger and sent a bullet careening through the air which then implanted itself into Deadpool's upper thigh.

"F… Freeze!" The elderly guard stammered.

"Ow," Deadpool tossed the cigar to the floor and leapt onto the desk, as the wound on his leg slowly began to close over. "You geriatric fuck! That's not how to be polite to a tourist!" Pulling two massive guns from a bag on the desk, he opened fire on the guards who made a flimsy attempt at returning shots on the masked mercenary.

"Do better," yelled Deadpool, over the firing rounds of his weapons. However, the guards didn't have much of a chance to 'do better'. It took only about a minuet for all of the guards to die, save for one, who had succeeded in losing both of his legs to Deadpool's onslaught.

All that remained were bloody, unrecognizable stumps.

Jumping off the desk, Deadpool lowered his weapons and strode over to the legless guard, eyes narrowed. "Now," he said, kneeling next to the guard, "where in the name of silicone can a guy get a good steak in this city?"

The guard sputtered in a mix of impending death, blood loss and shock. "You… Un… Under arres…"

Smashing the guard in the left thigh, Deadpool shook his head, "That's not what I asked. Steaaaaaak…" Changing his tone as though he were talking to a two-year-old, the mercenary continued, "I know you're slow, and… er...bleeding to death, but I want steak. Come on now, help a guy out, would ya?"

Screaming in pain from the punch to his severed leg, the guard rolled his head back and began to whimper. "Zin… Zinfandel on… Grand Ave…"

Picking up the guard's handgun, Deadpool shot the legless man through the temple. "Thanks."

* * *

Katrina grinned to herself as she smashed open the lock of the small storage shed in the outskirts of Chicago. Quickly shedding the hospital gown that she had been wearing, the blonde walked naked, into the pitch-black shed. Though there was a bitter, autumn chill in the air, the woman's body was pumping with way too many endorphins to notice.

First killing Dr. Brasster, then the escape from the hospital in Racine, stealing the car, robbing the fabric store, and finally, the two hour journey from Racine to Chicago.

Katrina truly felt alive again. She had almost given up any hope of ever again feeling like this since her admittance into the mental hospital nearly three years ago.

But now, she was out, back in Chicago, and more than ready to pick up where she had left off. Granted, Katrina knew that it would be a bit of a rocky road at first, reclaiming her name and title as a top assassin and hired gun. But just one good hit, with her old flair and style, and she would be back on top in no time.

Fishing a dusty candle from one of the many boxes on the shed's cement floor, the blonde grabbed a match from a shelf and swept it across the floor, allowing the tiny room to be bathed in a dim firelight. The illumination showed all of her personal belongings, right where she had left them.

Boxes upon boxes of guns, dynamite, blades and various other weapons were piled according to size and weight. Harnesses, backpacks, trams, night-vision gear, and a sewing machine. A few computerized devices were stacked on the many shelves in the shed along with a pile of old newspapers, two boxes of well-worn books, and a bag of unopened bird seed.

A look of remorse crossed her face as she walked over to the seed and allowed her hand to run over the smooth, plastic package. Eugene. The thought of the majestic, black raven caused a gentle smile to play at Katrina's lips.

The raven had been the main thing she'd loved, and the only thing that seemed to have ever cared about her. She wasn't sure exactly how she'd managed to acquire him, but Eugene had shown up on her balcony one evening, years ago – and stayed.

Never having been allowed a pet, Katrina was elated to have the bird around and took to spoiling him with rare seeds and small, dead rodents she purchased from a local pet supply shop.

Eventually, he'd taken to following her on some jobs, always being nearby. There was no rhyme or reason for it, and everyone Katrina had talked to who claimed to be an animal expert had no idea. Nonetheless, Eugene had become a real friend – the only one she'd had since she was a young teenager.

After she'd been caught and arrested, Katrina had no idea of what had happened to her friend. She assumed that he was still out there out there somewhere, maybe with a little family of his own, and a female or two to take care of him. That thought comforted her a little, as she turned from the birdseed. Eugene deserved to be happy.

Looking around the shed once again, Katrina's eyes fell on a large duffle bag that lay slumped in one of the dusty corners. Upon opening it, she discovered a thong and a bra, which she promptly put on. The blonde also discovered her old well-worn uniform. Black and green full-body tights, thick leather gloves; hip-hugging, black suede boots, and her mask.

Flipping the mask over in her hands, she grinned as she traced the V shaped design on the front of it. Katrina had been known as Vixen, then; she had been since she had started her criminal career at age twenty. The things she had done under that name were crimes most heinous, and to her quite fun. However, that was over now. She had been stupid, and betrayed, aAnd thanks to that, Vixen could never be again. Venomously, she tossed the mask back into the duffle bag and rose to her feet.

"Fucking rat-bastard," she hissed. "Ruin my whole bloody life. Way to take care of your own!"

With a shake of her head, Katrina dismissed the angry feelings that were beginning to rise within her. "I took care of that ass-mite, Danny already," Katrina said quietly. "Besides, it's time for something else, something better."

Opening the shed door, the blonde picked up the bunch of dark colored material that she had stolen from the fabric store before leaving Racine. She then placed the fabric down on the floor and pulled the sewing machine from its place in the corner. Tonight something new would be born. After all, she was twenty-eight years old, and it was time for Vixen to grow up.

* * *

Deadpool looked around the sitting room of the lavish mansion, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he was truly impressed. It wasn't so much the decor that the room's spacious feng shui design delivered, but rather the large black and white pictures of nude woman that adorned the walls. They was almost enough to make the mercenary want to start collecting art - almost. However, upon the thought of being branded a 'faggy art collector', Deadpool decided that he would stick with the centerfolds in _D Cup_ magazine and retain a firm grip on his heterosexuality, among other things.

"Greetings...Deadpool, isn't it?"

Turning around, the mercenary's brown eyes fell on a tall, conservatively dressed blonde woman who looked to be in her late forties. "Uh-huh." Deadpool nodded and winked at the woman, who, in his opinion, was pretty sexy for an old broad.

'_Sure there's a little snow on the roof,'_ he thought to himself as he watched the woman walk across the room and take a seat in a lavish, cream colored armchair. _'But the foundation's still solid.'_

Sipping from the porcelain teacup that had been placed beside the chair, the woman took a deep breath in and motioned for the mercenary to have a seat opposite her.

Deadpool winked again – seductively, and sauntered over to the chair, giving a large stretch and displaying his sculpted build before he sat down. "So," he began in his best singles bar voice, "do you come here often?"

Cocking her head to the side, the woman crossed her long legs and attempted to pull down the hem of her knee-length skirt so that it covered more of her legs. "I live here."

"Oh, right." Deadpool leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. "Well in that case… Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"

A look of horror erupted on the woman's delicate-featured face as she looked at Deadpool. "Well, I never!"

"You should, it's an orgasm waiting to happen. Besides, you aren't gonna be the first virgin that I've pillaged." Deadpool smiled at the thought.

The woman looked quite taken aback for a moment, and then a slow smile spread over her face and she placed her teacup onto an end table. "Well, you _are_ perfect for the job, Mr. Pool."

Sitting back in his chair, Deadpool cocked his head to the side. "So I'm told."

Grinning a little, the woman folded her arms across her chest. "You came with a bit of an unsure reputation, I must confess."

That was all the mercenary needed to hear to get upset. Deadpool leapt to his feet, towering over the still-sitting woman. He used the full force of his six-foot, two-inch height and muscled build to convey his anger. "Listen, grandma. My skills are top notch, don't forget that!"

"I meant your mental health, not your _skills_ – as you call them, Mr. Pool," stated the woman, her tone calm despite the mercenary standing over her. Again she picked up her teacup. "As far as skills and expertise go, I have heard you're the best. That is why _you_ arehere and not someone else."

Deadpool nodded and quickly returned to his position in the plush chair, attempting to reclaim any pride his little outburst might have stolen. He stretched his red-clad legs out in front of him. "What's the job? Need me to off a cheating husband? Some Malibu Barbie hot for your main squeeze?"

The woman smiled patiently at Deadpool as she sipped her tea. "I'll come right to the point, Mr. Pool…"

Deadpool cut her off. "Deadpool… no Mister, just Deadpool. Unless of course we decide to have sex. Then you can call me Mack Daddy, or Mister Big, or Holy Hell That's Huge."

Ignoring his words, and getting to her feet, the woman walked over to a large picture window and looked out at the evening sky. "I would like you to locate my daughter for me."

"I think you should know that I'm not really into the whole 'missing children' thing. I'm more into the get the loot, bomb the building, hired gun kinda thing." Deadpool shook his head. "You got the wrong merc, babe. But I can give ya' Bullseye's number, he's a sap, he'd probably go for It."

With a smirk, the woman looked from the view outside to the mercenary in her sitting room. "Deadpool, I have five hundred-thousand dollars waiting for you in a Swiss account."

Jumping to his feet, Deadpool proceeded to dance around the large room, shouting and giggling in utter glee. He even turned a few cartwheels and back flips. After that he calmly returned to his seat, all business. "Well, I'll have to think about your proposal and I'll get back to you."

"Would you care to know exactly what you will be doing, then?" The woman's patients was wearing thin and it showed in her voice.

"Hell, lady," stated Deadpool firmly, "for half-a-mil, I'd go down on Regis Philbin."

"That will not be necessary."

"Good thing."

The woman turned from Deadpool and took a deep breath in. "My daughter is my life, the only thing that keeps me going, my sun and my stars…"

Deadpool looked at the large vase of daisies that sat perkily on the table next to him. He was ecstatic at the prospect of making five million on something as easy as finding some snot-nosed kid.

Grabbing a few daises he began to absentmindedly pull the heads from the flowers as he thought of what he would do with all that money. When he happened to glance up Deadpool quickly tossed the flowers to the ground and smiled sheepishly at the woman as she looked at him with disdain. "Oopsie daisy?"

"Indeed. Listen. You may think that this will be an easy assignment for you, Deadpool, but rest assured that it will have challenges."

Deadpool scoffed, "No offence lady, but how much challenge could a little kid be? What's she gonna do? Spill her ice cream cone on me?"

At this the woman laughed. It was a soft, happy noise that made the room seem brighter. "Is that what you think? Dear boy, my daughter is twenty-eight years old." Reaching into the pocket of her sweater, the woman pulled out a folded up newspaper clipping. With a shake of her head, she handed it to Deadpool.

Unfolding the clipping Deadpool's face clouded over. '_The infamous Katrina Kinkade, alias, Vixen; a mercenary and mass murderer, escaped last night from Shady Oaks Home for the Criminally Insane, in Racine, Illinois. She was being held for ten consecutive life sentences and spent over a year on the FBI's ten most wanted list. Vixen brutally murdered her psychologist, fourteen orderlies and six security guards before killing a man in downtown Racine and stealing his car…_

Deadpool looked up from the clipping to the woman. "_This_ is your daughter?"

She nodded, "Yes, Deadpool, that is my daughter. What I want from you is to capture her and bring her back here to me, without harming her. "

Deadpool blinked at the woman, but said nothing.

"Naturally, I will give you all of the information that I have on her."

"Riiiiight. Don't you think it would be better to let the cops handle this one?"

At this a look of deep anger snapped on to the woman's face, causing her fine features to wither into an ugly mask. "The police would sooner see her dead. I want no harm to come to my little girl. She is not evil, just misguided, and she needs her mother."

"I never knew Norman Bates had an aunt," Deadpool mumbled. Looking at the woman cautiously, it only took Deadpool a few seconds to decide that she was insane. Truth be told, the thought of going out there on a manhunt so some crazy woman could get her homicidal daughter back almost made him toss the offer to the ground and go home.

Almost.

Then again, a half million dollars was a half million dollars. "Let's rock and roll, shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting, lazily on the edge of a rooftop, Deadpool surveyed the city that bustled below him. Chicago was beautiful at night, the way the lights twinkled impishly and the whole metropolis seemed electric with an unheard music.

All of the people forty stories below seemed to be so carefree as they hurried off to night clubs and home from a long days overtime. Each and everyone of them happily oblivious to all the crime and punishment that took place on the very streets they prodded down daily.

Even the cars buzzed in a most nonchalant way, turning and stopping, each taking their turn as governed by law.

Nothing down below appeared to even remotely care that one day it all would be gone, and forgotten. The people would die and with them, their carefree laughs and memories. The lights would burn out and the cars turn to nothing more than rust.

Such was the cycle of life, and the way everything, ultimately, was destined to end.

That was the injustice of living – something that no one on Chicago's busy streets seemed aware of.

The unfairness of life was not only lost on those who roamed the streets below, but also on the red clad mercenary who watched them. Though his physical body was scarred horribly and his mind haunted by the very demons we all try to ignore, Deadpool was beyond caring about it.

Mater of fact, Deadpool was beyond caring about anything thing at all, save for how much more tequila he could pour into his already drunken mouth.

After the woman, who he had learned was named Samantha Kinkade-Rothman, had given him his assignment, Deadpool had run out and bought as much booze as he could carry. A near-million dollar job deserved a good celebration after all.

The mercenary had then proceeded to find a very tall, unmanned roof top and celebrate for all that he was worth.

"Feelingsh, noshing more dan feelingsh," Deadpool sang in a drunken haze, as he tossed the now empty tequila bottle to join the remnants of those that had gone before it.

The bottle shattered as it hit the hard concrete, causing Deadpool to stop his mangled singing and look at where the bottle lay. Concern filled his brown eyes and mask covered face. "My ohnly frhiend," the mercenary slurred, pointing to the broken glass.

It seemed to take all of the masked mercenary's strength, as he pulled his muscular frame up from it's sitting position, and stumbled over to have a closer look at the broken bottle. Picking up a piece of glass, Deadpool examined first one side then the other. After a moment, he then nodded in a most professional manor.

"No need to whoory, Mishter Wilshon..." Deadpool told himself as he chucked the glass to the ground, "dis bottle died of natural causes!"

Satisfied, Deadpool began to sing again. "Feelingsh…"

* * *

The mercenary seemed totally oblivious to anything that was going on around him. Including the pair of eyes that sat, watching him, from a nearby roof top.

Katrina shook her head and sighed as she watched the masked mercenary bellow in his drunken stupor from the roof top. She'd heard of Deadpool years before she'd even started in the mercenary business. Her criminology professor had claimed to have once treated him when he worked for the government in Canada.

At the time, Katrina hadn't cared all that much, as Professor Willis would have said he'd treated Jack the Ripper - in the flesh - so long as it gave the him a chance to get in her Capri's.

What Katrina knew for fact, with regards to Deadpool, was that even then he had been one of the best. Although, at the time he had been having some issues with a disease and word on the street was that he'd seriously snapped.

Not that any of that mattered. All that Katrina was concerned with was the fact that, at this point in time, Deadpool was still the best.

Even though she was now going under the name of Raven, letting the Vixen alias die, that was not enough.

The blonde had decided, while making her new uniform on the floor of the shed, that she would need an ultimate way to jumpstart her career after what had happened. Employers didn't look too favorably on hiring someone who had not only been sold out, but had spent time in an institution.

Then it had come to her. Kill the best out there, and that makes you the best. Granted, Katrina-- now Raven -- had not really wanted to be the number one, too many people gunning for you. But at this point, she really didn't have many more appealing options.

So, she'd had done a little bit of checking, called a few old contacts and found out that Deadpool had the top spot and - convenient as anything - he happened to be here in Chicago on a job. After that it was just a matter of hunting down a few choice locations and playing the waiting game.

Luckily, she hadn't had to wait all that long. Raven had decided to check rooftops first, just in case Deadpool was setting up a surveillance hit . After finding a nice tall building, she happened to glance over and there he was. Hopping around, drinking his brains out.

"He's just waiting for someone to take him out, dancing up there like that. Fucking retard…" Adjusting the view through her binoculars, Raven thought she had heard someplace that Deadpool had something of an 'advanced healing factor.' They said that basically, it allowed him to regenerate and heal very quickly. It almost made him impossible to kill.

Raven smirked under her black mask, _'we'll just have to see about that…' _Pulling a large gun from her duffle bag and a clip from one of the pouches on her black uniform, she set about getting ready to become the best.

* * *

Deadpool never saw it coming. Not the ambush, not the kick to the face and most certainly not the torrent of bullets to his gut.

He had just been meandering about the roof, singing classic commercial jingles and enjoying his drunken state. Now, not more than a few seconds layer the masked mercenary lay flat on his back, tequila, blood and broken glass covering his still body.

Looking down over Deadpool's bloodied body, Raven grinned underneath her black mask. "Alas poor watsisname, I knew him well." In all honesty, she'd expected a challenge, a fight, or at the very least an argument. But like all men, Deadpool had disappointed her by dying drunk and without so much as a peep. "You suck, man!"

Even as she uttered the words and turned from her victim, Raven felt that there was something seriously wrong. Holding her MARK 23 handgun in ready position, she narrowed her green eyes and decided that it might be best to make a sweep of the area as quickly as possible, just in case.

However, when she was half way between Deadpool's body and the ledge of the roof that same uneasy feeling and her instincts made her turn around and look back.

Shock replaced the scowl under her mask.

Not only was Deadpool not lying dead on the ground, but the massive bullet wounds that she had placed in his gut and abdomen, were almost gone, leaving only scarred flesh, and ragged, red cloth in their place.

"That," growled an enraged Deadpool, now on his feet and grabbing his gun, "fucking… hurt."


End file.
